Velvet black petunias bordered the garden.
Body wanted to finger the petals. Details
Arranged the passing of a day. Mothers
Were feted yesterday. Two small girls
Ran circles around a corner hot-dog vendor
In spattering rain. At the village grocery,
Neighbors chatted amiably about the chill,
When of course the contrarian clouds parted
For an hour, partly, as if peaks were fingers
Carding the raw, wet wool. Down at the lake
Only one fool foolish enough for a cold swim
Lasting scarcely two minutes in the waves.
Then back to a musty relic of a bureaucracy
No longer ascendant in these regrowing
Woods. Out of the fight, but carried along
With the sunset, the crows, the daughter
Watching a decades-old cartoon of She-Ra
Leading the Rebels, combating the Horde,
The same goofy story that every story is,
A crisis strikes a settled world, a hero arises.
Naming what was, heaping up phrases
Like these into a pile of text only made
Something more for a dust pan to carry off.
There was no dust pan, only more dust, but
Change will do it in time. Think on that,
Whatever your own details, however
Important they are in your world, whatever
Cartoon god you or your children revere,
Revered as children. Change will do it
In time. Cosmos contorts itself in that phrase
Or that phrase marks a singular contortion,
And no physicist or philosopher yet can say
What it means or doesn't. Was. Is. Wasn't.
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